


Sweeter Than Lemonade

by enthroned



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Music, Summer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-11
Updated: 2013-07-11
Packaged: 2017-12-19 04:49:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/879645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enthroned/pseuds/enthroned
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles convinces the pack to go to a music festival, and then spends his time complaining about the heat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweeter Than Lemonade

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted Sterek fluff set at a music festival. I'm sorry. The festival most resembles Coachella, even if that happened way back in April; just go with it. 
> 
> This is unbeta'd, so I apologize for any and all mistakes.
> 
> The title is from "Summer Sun" by Matt Wertz. There's no lemonade here, but it is reminiscent of the toothache that semi-sweet Sterek can produce.

“But it’s so _hot_.”

From where Stiles is perched on his shoulders, Derek can’t see his pout but he can certainly _hear_ it. It’s there, in the way he huffs out the final word, elongates the single vowel, a puff of breath against Derek’s hair. His shoulders are slouched and he has one arm draped around Derek’s head, forearm pressing across his forehead, low enough to nearly blind him; while it’s working to block out the blazing summer sun, it’s also a safety hazard and Derek nearly walks them right into a group of girls wearing cut-off denim shorts and flowers in their braids. Instead of daisies, he has a crown of Stiles, which is both heavier and much more verbose. Stiles’ scent is nothing like a wildflower, either. He smells of cinnamon and pine needles and the faint undertone of home, even though they’re a few hundred miles away from Beacon Hills. 

“You already said that. About twenty times. Sit up.” Derek reaches up, two fingers hooking under Stiles’ chin in an attempt to guide him into an upright position again. He succeeds, until his hand lowers to rest on the other man’s knee, leaving Stiles to flop right back down. It’s almost as if the sun has rendered him boneless, and Derek is half-impressed that he can still manage to sprawl out while balancing on top of another human being. This time, Derek can feel a cheek against the back of his skull, a nose snuffling into his dark hair. He wants to sigh but instead says, “Do I have to remind you that this was your idea?”

From just slightly above him, Stiles groans in response. It’s more of a whine, really, drawn out and high-pitched and pressed into the back of Derek’s neck. It isn’t an answer, but Derek knows exactly what it means. Yes, this entire trip was Stiles’ doing, from slipping Vampire Weekend and Metric and Passion Pit onto Derek’s workout playlists until he could tell the difference between the bands (sort of, not really, but he knows one of them has a female vocalist) to insisting that everyone stay on the campgrounds rather than in a hotel. It was, apparently, all part of the magical music experience, and even Lydia wasn’t able to deny Stiles when he pulled the pack-bonding card. Derek still isn’t convinced that getting covered in dust and then sleeping in each other’s sweat actually amounts to bonding of any sort. In conclusion, this is all Stiles’ fault.

Stiles shifts then, and, instead of allowing him to topple down about six feet to the ground, Derek goes with the movement and curls his fingers over the boy’s thighs. He can hear the rumble of Stiles’ voice, but he can’t quite make out the words that are caught between the kid’s lips and the thin material of his shirt. After another moment that finds Derek leaning to the left in order to keep them both off of the dirt, Stiles manages to free himself from the shirt, and repeats, “Still a good idea. Just hot.” 

Derek snatches the shirt and tucks it into the back pocket of his jeans, next to his own tank top that Stiles had managed to tug off when he first clambered up Derek’s spine; he’s been clinging to his boyfriend since the first band of the day, but Derek doesn’t mind. He likes the closeness, doesn’t mind the heat, and if this position stops a few pairs of wandering eyes from landing on Stiles, with his reddening skin and slicked back hair that’s damp all the way to the nape of his neck, then the boy is welcome to stay just like this until the weekend is over and they’re back home. He really doesn’t want to have to pull out the growl on too many hippies or hipsters or whatever the kids are calling themselves these days.

From his other pocket, Derek grabs a bottle of sunscreen and holds it up over his head. “Here,” he says, and gets a grunt in response. “No, don’t give me that. You’ll fry out here, and I don’t particularly feel like dating a lobster. Plus, I don’t want to listen to your whining for the rest of the summer. Put it on.” His tone, while gentle (always gentle, always with Stiles), leaves no room for protests and he only lowers his arm after the boy has grabbed for the sunscreen.

“I don’t whine,” Stiles eventually replies, once he’s popped the cap of the bottle and, from the smell of him, has covered at least his neck and shoulders with the lotion. Derek has never been able to place the exact smell of the stuff, but now he scrunches up his nose as it attempts to mask out the scent that he associates with Stiles. He makes a mental note to find unscented sunscreen when they get back to Beacon Hills; it will likely make the summer much more enjoyable for the both of them.

Now, he simply raises an eyebrow at Stiles’ assertion. He knows the other man can’t see it, but he can likely sense Derek’s expression without needing to actually watch his face at all. “Oh, really?” The words match his arched eyebrow and Derek continues, “Do I have to remind you about the lake incident after your graduation?”

“We don’t talk about – ” 

“You didn’t want to move for a week. Your blisters had blisters, and you looked like Little Red Riding Hood even when you were naked.” Derek would smile, but he remembers how much agony Stiles was actually in until the angry red color finally faded to pink and then to pale cream again. And this is why he carries sunscreen with him at all times once the summer heat settles in. “You even griped in your sleep. I don’t need a repeat performance.”

Stiles grumbles above him but keeps quiet long enough to smear the sunscreen across his back and chest. Eventually, he holds the bottle in front of Derek’s nose. 

“Did you get your ears?” Derek tilts his head backwards as he asks the question, peering up at his boyfriend even as he tugs the bottle out of his fingers. Stiles’ expression turns sheepish just for a second and Derek can’t fight it as the corners of his lips turn upward in response. Stiles never remembers his ears; Derek can still recall their first summer together, when his ears were pink and just slightly warmer to the touch and Derek couldn’t stop himself from kissing them just to make Stiles bat at his jaw until he gave up for at least a few minutes.

Rather than pass the bottle back to him, Derek simply opens it and squeezes. With one hand circled around Stiles’ ankle, he keeps them both steady as he reaches behind him and blindly searches for his two targets. It doesn’t take long, he knows Stiles’ body better than he’s ever known his own, even as the younger man deliberately leans out of his grasp, and his fingers catch against one ear and then the next. Stiles’ laugh hits him at the first touch, and it’s a wonder he doesn’t drop the boy right then; the sound is always so delighted and alive and unreserved, and he still can’t figure out how he’s become the creator of such pure bliss. Instead, he tightens his hand around the other man’s ankle until he can feel his pulse beneath his palm.

Derek pockets the bottle of sunscreen and, if they were anywhere else in the world, the two of them would have been swept up in a comfortable silence. But instead, they’re surrounded by streams of music that have them trapped on all sides. He contemplates turning back to the campgrounds, curving his fingers over Stiles’ hips, and insisting that they only reemerge after the sun has dipped below the horizon. Maybe after that, even.

He’s about to suggest this, when Stiles lowers his head and grazes his teeth over Derek’s temple. He goes to say something else, something with more intent behind it, when Stiles whispers against his skin, “ _A wolf, wolf and I. We share the same cold meal._ ” Derek knows he’s heard it before, listened to it more than once (not that he’ll ever admit this to Stiles) as he darted through the trees and greeted the sun on his morning run through the forest. But it sounds superior now, murmured in the heat-soaked voice that he knows, just knows, no one else around them can even detect. Stiles does it on purpose, pitches his voice deliberately low and reminds Derek that it’s just for him.

Derek smiles, tries to come up with the next lyric in the song but can’t. He’s never really been good with music, can’t even remember the songs that the radio stations in Beacon Hills just can’t seem to get enough of. Stiles doesn’t seem to care, too focused on leaving a trail of sloppy kisses from Derek’s hairline to his mouth. Derek turns in time to catch him up in a real kiss, one hand slipping back to clasp at the boy’s neck. He swears that even the music stops around them, or maybe it just gets a little bit louder; he doesn’t care, because the only sound he can hear is the slight flutter of Stiles’ heartbeat, trapped just beneath his ribcage.

“Too hot,” Stiles complains as he breaks the kiss and leans his temple against Derek’s. Derek is ready to roll his eyes until Stiles continues, “Fuck it. Fuck the music, fuck this sand – it’s going to take me weeks to feel clean again, you know. _Weeks_. Fuck, fuck, fuck it, take me back to the tent.”

Derek wants to remind him again that this was all his idea, that they’re only here because Stiles begged and then demanded, that they could be back home and stretched out in bed right now. He almost does, but Stiles curls his fingers through Derek’s hair, tugs until their eyes lock, and repeats, “I said, take me back to the tent.” 

Derek is all too happy to oblige him.

**Author's Note:**

> The song that Stiles sings to Derek is "Six Weeks" by Of Monsters and Men.


End file.
